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| Sqiddy, Our Resident Squirrel, taken yesterday |
This post is a mixed bag of stories—one suggested by a good friend and former debater, Dave Carlson, two stories from early travels to Scotland and Ireland, and one unbelievable story that just occurred [actually, I do believe it because it happened to us]. The accompanying photos will be a mixed bag of whatever I can find that might be appropriate to share—sorry, I’ve not been getting out much recently (weather, a cold, and a bout of Covid).
The Fiats in My Life
We bought our first Fiat sports car in 1969, a new red Fiat 124 Sports Spyder, when we were newly married and teaching in SoCal. It was a fun and comfortable car to drive, classy and sporty. We loved that car and the love affair lasted until we moved back to Oregon in 1970. Oregon and the SoCal Fiat did not get along. We soon learned that FIAT really did stand for “Fix It Again Tomorrow.” Bye-bye Fiat 124.
Fast forward to about 1990. We were living in Canby where I was a speech teacher and high school speech coach. A sexy yellow 1981 Fiat X1.9 came on the market for a good price and my Fiat memories had mellowed—golfers always forget the bad shots and dwell on the good ones. Anne said I could get the car if I was sure it was okay. I had the car thoroughly checked by a local foreign car mechanic—at least I thought he was thorough—and he said it would be a short list of repairs to get it into top shape. So, we bought it. Then came the short list of repairs which got longer the more we broke it down. To make it road worthy I had spend half again what I bought the car for. Finally, with the repairs done, the car was ready to drive.
I loved driving the car to school, it was the coolest of teachers’ cars. Exciting to drive on the twisty back roads, the car commonly called the Poor Man’s Ferrari was loud, fast, low to the ground and soon proved that it really was a Fiat, “Fix It Again Tony.”
The first problem came when the gear shifter came away in my hand as I shifted into 2nd gear on the way home from school. Soon after the engine overheated when at high speed, then at slow speed, then upon start up. The brakes went bad. The wheels wouldn’t align. The targa roof panels wouldn’t fit right. My beautiful little car was spending more time in the repair shop (the same foreign car mechanic) than on the road. All the Triple AAA tow drivers knew both Anne and I by first name. Anne refused to drive the car because she didn’t know what was going fall off next.
The car sold quickly and for practically nothing. It had been an expensive second chance for Fiat. All this came flooding back to me when Dave sent me an email with an ad for a modified ’81 Fiat X1.9 for sale. It was a pretty car. He sarcastically asked if I was interested. I thanked him kindly and immediately started writing this post.
Ardvreck Castle, Northern Scottish Highlands
Petrol Strike in Scotland
On our first trip to Scotland in September of 2000, we had plans to see a lot of the small country driving our rental Vauxhall Wagon on the Other Side. After our third day in the country our plans were put in jeopardy by a nationwide petrol strike—petrol delivery drivers were refusing to deliver fuel because of high government taxes on petrol. We tax gas mostly for money for roads and transportation while in the UK petrol taxes are much higher and cover things such as education and health care as well as roads. At first there were reports of limited outages, but then we started hearing that 80-90 percent of stations had only reserves left for emergency vehicle. Poor us: foreigners not knowing the country, on our first trip, in a rental car, driving on the other side.
A Gathering of Lotus Super 7s in Crieff, central Scotland
We started making plans with the remains of our first tank of gas in mind. Local stations were closed. For a couple of days we would only drive a few miles to see sights or play golf, always keeping enough reserve to get back to Glasgow and the car rental company. One afternoon in a local pub we were accosted by a drunk trucker who blamed the Americans and Tony Blair for the troubles and what were we doing in his pub! [BTW, that was the only time in 34 trips to Scotland that we had trouble with anyone over anything—a real One Off.] We considered turning our car in at Glasgow and turning the trip into a train trip. In a couple of days the claims were getting wilder: all stations everywhere were closed, they were rioting in the streets of even small villages, even the potato crop was rotting in the fields because farmers had no fuel.
One of our many Scottish rental cars.
It was decision time because we were scheduled to move on. Our B&B host arranged to get us a small amount of petrol to make us more comfortable and said he didn’t believe what we were hearing. He said, “I’m sure you’ll be alright once you get the motorway (freeway).” He was correct. The stations on the motorway were operating fully and there was plenty of petrol. We’d had our welcome to the UK by British Press.
Typical local pub near Dingle, Ireland.
Finding Our Way in Ireland
We found our way to Ireland on our first trip (May 2002) with no trouble—north from Portland, turn right at Vancouver, and head east for several hours. Finding our way to anything in Ireland was a different matter. First we discovered that highway signs didn’t contain important information, such as road numbers. In fact, when we were leaving our first B&B near Swords we asked our host how to get to highway R3200 and his reply was, “Our roads don’t have numbers. To get to where you want to end up just turn right at the third barn, go a mile and take the left fork with the big white house, and stay on that road for 2 miles.”
Merrick Round Tower, Ireland
We also found out that road signs would often name the furtherest large city or town on the route. So to use a map, the navigator had to find the destination and then look further to see what might be mentioned. For instance, you might want to go to Macroom from Cork to play golf, but there are no signs to Macroom. All the signs say Killarney, but don’t tell you Macroom is on the way to Killarney. It only takes a little work to figure it out, but it’s the Irish way. Another stumbling block is that some destinations have more than one name. We discovered this when looking for the route to Londonderry in Northern Ireland while we were in the Republic. We kept seeing signs for Derry, but no Londonderry. Duh! We were in Ireland where they wouldn’t say Londonderry. To the Irish it was Derry. When we crossed the border into Northern Ireland the speed limits changed from km/h to mph, road numbers changed from Ns and Rs to As and Bs, roads got wider, and signs said Londonderry.
Corcomroe Abbey near the Burren, Ireland
The last major problem with signs in Ireland is that often there aren’t any—or at least not enough. This is especially true when the destination is some tourist point. At one point we were looking for an abbey listed on our map. From the main highway we could actually see the ruin in distance and a sign told us where to turn off to head to the abbey. They forgot the four signs needed at four intersections to get to the abbey. We made our best guesses, looked for other clues on our map, backtracked several times, and finally found the abbey. There was a sign that said “Abbey” which was a ruin in a farmers cow field—even the road was so mucky I couldn’t get out of the car for a picture.
This Winkle seller was easy to find in the middle of Tuam, Ireland.
Don’t get me wrong, we loved our four, month-long Ireland trips. We love the country and the people. And though the craik and music is great in Ireland, the signage was not.
Has this Happened to You
A little over a week ago Anne got a text on her phone that an Rx was ready at the local RiteAid pharmacy. The only thing unusual was that we quit going to RiteAid about two years ago and now use Fred Meyer pharmacy. Anne thought the prescription might be for an inhaler from her allergy doctor, a prescription that comes only every couple of years. Since I was going out I said I’d stop at RiteAid and check on the prescription. It was an inhaler so I pickled it up and brought it home.
Now it gets stranger. When I got the Rx home Anne said she’d never used that medicine before and couldn’t have because it contains sulphur which she is allergic to. Reading the label closely we discovered that although Anne’s name, address, and DOB were correct, the Rx was from a doctor she’d never heard of in Oakland, CA. How does a doctor she’s never seen or heard of prescribe her a medicine she didn’t order and can’t take?
We called RiteAid and they don’t know why or how it happened, but we can’t take it back and have already paid the $15 co-pay which we can’t get back. Our insurance company says medicine which can’t be returned will still be charged against our account. They did say they’d check into how it happened and get back to us in a day or two (that was 10 days ago). We’ve paid for medicine we didn’t order and can’t use or return. Thoughts anyone?
